The Sentinels die cast memories strewn aside

Along the northernmost fringes of the weald lied the torn expanse of forestry far older. Dirge had been there once before but had not explored it at length; there wasn't much to it in his eyes. Yet it was not so easily avoided when he bothered to trek this way, ever teasing the border between coast and wilderness and its gentle exchange though admittedly violent here. For a spell he had continued to toy along its fringes, the weald long thinned behind him and the old deadwood forest jagged and bittern defiant to the greenery that seeped in still. Yet when the time came, he once more delved into its depths and drew in its scents.

The wolves to the north nestled in their bay some odd miles away had grown quiet—it was here in the midsts he had heard them before, and to the fields east—and his interest was unquestionably piqued. With @Nyx's disdain for the coast it was not often he ventured this way, yet the silence was a palpable thing, almost troubling with the way the turn of the season was soon to approach. A still chilled wind made the old wood groan as it was caught in a gale, the northern wind pulling sea salt and loam, and the faint fermentation of indescribable waste.

He paused along the rotting wood where coastal foliage overtook it and tasted that air, mulling untold options that masked his countenance in thought. It was troubled, those thoughts, but the stoic mask belied he ever had a concern. The steps he took thereafter followed suit—he would push a bit further to confirm or deny that the silence implied the competition had abandoned their quest and home, and would quit the hallowed wood for the weald.